


Work for Hire

by rosefox



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Family, Gen, Loyalty, POV Second Person, Siblings, Sleepwalking, Tarot, Trick or Treat: Challenge Yourself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-07 08:37:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16405007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosefox/pseuds/rosefox
Summary: You no longer take commissions. You've learned that the hard way.But this one is different.





	Work for Hire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shadaras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadaras/gifts).



> Thank you so much for putting second-person POV on your likes list so I didn't even have to ask! I hope you enjoy this.

You no longer take commissions. You've learned that the hard way.

But this one is different.

_Hey K,_

_I've been trying to figure out what to do for Mom's 60th, and I think I've finally got the answer. What if I pose for you and you paint me as a Tarot card? I'm going to be in Boston for a conference next month, and I could tack on a week of vacation so you can paint from life instead of a photo._

Your sister knows you far too well. How many excited texts did you send her the first time you got to take a life drawing class? How many times did you beg her to lend you money so you could hire models? She's always been there for you, taking care of you when you struggled, listening to your joys and woes.

But you don't hire models anymore, for the same reason you don't take commissions. You don't let ordinary people near your art. It's safer this way.

_I was thinking Strength or maybe the Star. Or one of the queens, whichever one is all harvest and bounty themed. Something that represents what she's taught us and given us._

Your sister has no idea what your mother taught you. Your sister is an accountant. Sometimes you tease her about being the white sheep of the family. The rest of your relatives are artists and mystics, with the occasional psychotherapist or humanities professor. She's not like them at all. It's part of why you love her. 

Your mother is a painter too, and she taught you all her secrets. Your mother gave you your first deck, a shabby old Morgan-Greer, and showed you how to do a reading. Your mother introduced you to her patron, and you painted a custom deck to some unusual specifications. By the time you understood what you were really selling, it was much, much too late.

_Maybe you could even do a companion self-portrait, if there's time. You're super fast, right?_

You slap the laptop shut and sit there on your bed, shaking. You can't help looking over your shoulder. Did _they_ see? Will it give _them_ ideas?

But the room is empty, or at least it seems empty.

There's nothing in your bedroom except your bed and a dresser you got off the curb. The walls are a glaring eggshell white. Artists should have art on their walls, and you used to, but you started to feel like it was looking at you, so you put it all away. An empty room is good. It gives _them_ fewer places to hide.

The easel is in the living room. You can afford a one-bedroom apartment with separate studio space, and—in an entirely different sense—you can't afford to have the easel in your room while you're sleeping. 

Two weeks ago, you dreamed of wading through oil paints up to your knees. The morass of it was brown and thick and clotted like old blood. Swirls of phthalo blue and green eddied past you, glowing and steaming. You were straining to reach an island you could only barely see through the mist. Turpentine fumes choked you, so real you woke up to find yourself standing before the easel, palette knife in hand. And what you were painting—you can't think about it. So the easel is in the living room, and you latch your bedroom door before you go to bed. You don't know why it makes a difference, but it does.

(Did you destroy that painting? You meant to. But did you?)

You open the laptop an inch, just enough to get your finger to the keyboard. When the screen lights up, you tap the E key to archive the email. You can't remember the keyboard shortcut for deleting, but archiving it should be enough. You'll never see it again. No one will read it over your shoulder. No one will ask you to paint yourself.

(You can't remember whether you destroyed it. What happened to it? Why can't you remember?)

Opening the laptop all the way, you launch a new email window and compose a chatty letter to your sister full of nothing at all. You mention being extremely busy right now—booked for months. It's great that you're getting so much business, you write. (She doesn't need to know what kind of business.) You're tired and not sleeping much, but that's the artist's life. (She doesn't need to know about the nightmares, the lock on your door.) When you finish up this batch of work, you're going to take a break and travel overseas for a while. (She doesn't need to know just how far you're going.) You'll be back in time for Mom's birthday party. Can you chip in for a birthday present—maybe a spa day gift certificate, or some flowers? 

(She doesn't need to know that you're working on a painting for your mother already. It's not something your sister should see. It's not something anyone should see. It's going slowly because you can only paint half of it at a time. You cover the other half with a piece of plywood. You do not peek.)

You reread the email before you send it. Your sister will know you're keeping her at arm's length; she'll wonder why, and maybe feel hurt. You hate the thought of hurting her. But you can't see another choice.

You allow yourself a brief moment of regret. Your sister would have made a beautiful Star, and you would have been thrilled to paint her, to share the unique connection of artist and model with someone you already love so much. But you are Strength, and you would wrestle lions for her. Your sister is the white sheep in a family of wolves. She's always been there for you. Now it's your turn to keep her safe.

You press _send_.

You hope it's enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to TexasDreamer01 for the fantastic beta.


End file.
